Repercussions
by natalieashe
Summary: Q's mad scheme to use 007's flirting talents to drive Sherlock back into John's arms seems to have worked, but there's always a downside to meddling. Follow up to Part of the Furniture. Some language and sexual references.
1. Chapter 1

The extraction from China had taken the better part of two days. Red tape that should have magically dissolved under Q's manipulation became tangled ever tighter, restricting their movements and delaying their return to England. Comms with Q-branch had mysteriously suffered intermittent failures, and their plane was grounded for over six hours while a technical fault was investigated. If Bond was a superstitious man he would have believed something was determined to prevent him returning home.

Overall Bond was in remarkably good shape for someone who had been held for three days. His captors had barely begun to flex their muscles, so heavy bruising and a few nasty cuts were the sum total of his injuries. He had been denied food, but they had been generous with his water, so he was lucid and functioning, in spite of the agonising cramps in his stomach. He was unbelievably tired and all he wanted was to curl up in bed with Q and sleep for hours in his lover's arms, so he ducked out of MI6 avoiding both Medical and his debrief and headed home.

The first sign that that something was amiss was the absolute deathly silence of their flat. When Q moved in he arrived with a sizeable quantity of electronic kit that normally sat in the corner of the living room, providing a constant background hum of fans and the occasional beep or chime when a message landed in one of the many inboxes Q monitored. After a couple of weeks Bond stopped noticing the noise, unless it ceased as it had now. The hush was unnerving, absolute. Most of the kit was still there, but it was all powered down, and there were spaces in the setup where favoured pieces of tech had once been situated. Gun in hand, Bond made a tour of the flat, ending in the bedroom.

Q had been thorough, he'd give him that. Apart from the computer hardware, everything that was Q had been removed from the flat completely, leaving gaping holes where he should be. There was no note, no explanation. He was just gone.

Q-branch scattered like frightened rabbits when the furious 00-agent marched through their midst, only one brave soul daring to impede his progress, nervously stepping into his path to inform him that Q was busy and did not want to be disturbed by anybody, the clear implication being Bond in particular. Bond snapped his ice-blue eyes to him and growled, sending the young man scuttling back to his desk with a worried look at the open door of Q's office.

Q was at his desk, fingers flashing over the keyboard, eyes glued to the screen. He didn't look up when Bond entered, although he must have heard the general panicked murmuring from the office beyond. Bond regarded him silently, waiting for an explanation.

"You're back," Q said. "I had rather hoped to delay you sufficiently to remove the remainder of my belongings, but 003 got into a bit of a fix in..."

"I don't care about 003," Bond said, low, dangerous. "I want to know what the hell is going on Q."

"John Watson."

"_What?_" Bond stilled, cool eyes cautiously assessing everything about his lover. Taut posture, eyes fixed ferociously on the computer before him, lower lip clamped between his teeth in determination not to break down, not to give in.

"You fucked John Watson and you didn't tell me," he bit out, immediately nipping his lip again. Q still hadn't looked at him, to all appearances completely focused on whatever he was doing, but the faintest tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Bond shifted his posture, stance becoming more arrogant, more confident… protected. "Well it worked didn't it? Sent him back into Sherlock's arms? I'm almost insulted that he prefers your lanky brother to me, but that was the objective."

"Flippancy is not your friend 007."

"Double-oh...? Oh come _on_ Q..."

"You lied to me."

"I didn't lie."

"By omission. Same thing."

"For god's sake Q, it was your stupid plan. 'Treat it like a mission', you said, so I did exactly that." He slammed Q's laptop shut, the younger man only just managing to whip his fingers away before they jammed under the lid. "Look at me!" Q stared at Bond's hand where it rested forcefully on the computer. There was dirt under his fingernails, cuts and scrapes on his knuckles, but they were the hands he loved. Hands that had held him, cherished him, loved him.

"You didn't _tell_ me. You let me believe it hadn't gone that far. And it _wasn't_ a mission," he finished softly, voice trailing away to be barely audible.

Bond let out a roar of frustration, slamming Q's office door and locking it. Q had installed various electronic locking devices on it, but for Bond's immediate purpose of keeping the concerned Q-branch kids out the good old Yale would do. "You _cann__ot_ hold me responsible..." He began but Q cut him off, rallying, impossibly cultured accent breaking on the words.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for one of your department juniors to bring evidence of your boyfriend's infidelity to you?"

"I... _What_? I don't understand..."

"When an agent is taken by an unknown group it is standard procedure to look beyond their official activities for a motive. We knew your kidnapping had nothing to do with your mission, so all areas of your life were reviewed, including records pertaining to your personal mobile."

"I thought there was no official monitoring of our private devices."

"Clearly. Your call and message history certainly would support your belief."

"_Fuck_! It's not what it looks like..."

"Eloquent as ever, 007. Please don't insult me further James. This is difficult enough. I would like you to leave my office." A broken sob escaped, was choked back. Q clawed for composure, not willing to show the pain that was tearing his insides to shreds.

"No, I'm not going anywhere until you _listen_. I got carried away, took it too far, I'm sorry, but I didn't intend to..."

"Cheat? Really? You booked a fucking _hotel_ James! That's not flirting getting out of hand while we're staying in their home, that's deliberately and intentionally destroying our relationship for no other reason than your own ego! John wanted you and you couldn't resist. You arranged something beyond the parameters of what I asked of you and you kept it secret. Honesty, James, that's the only way I cope with you fucking anything that breathes while you're on a mission. If you tell me it happened then I can compartmentalise it as 'work', but the minute you keep it from me..."

"That's not... I mean... _Christ!_ Don't do this please Q, I'll beg if that's what it takes. It was all part of your plan and we didn't go to a hotel, I promise you. Believe me please, you must."

"Out! If I need to, I'll have you thrown out, but let's try to maintain some semblance of dignity."

James shoulders sagged, defeated. This whole situation was Q's fault for roping him into something he knew instinctively was a bad idea.

"This isn't fair Q. I did what you asked of me, you can't blame me entirely. I thought admitting John and I had sex would change things between us and I didn't want that to happen. I love you. I don't want to lose you over this."

Q finally looked at him, green eyes dulled with pain. "Please James, just go…"

James left.


	2. Chapter 2

James Bond sat across from John Watson in the living room of 221b Baker Street and tried to explain why everything was royally fucked up. Mercifully Sherlock was out for the afternoon and John had no locum work scheduled, so the two ex-military men could sit down face to face and hammer out the details of their fleeting relationship to a degree that would hopefully pacify a devastated MI6 Quartermaster and an unaware Consulting Detective.

"Q believes that I booked a hotel with the express purpose of shagging you senseless," Bond said conversationally. He liked John, enjoyed his company and was hoping the whole mess wasn't going to be the ruin of a perfectly good friendship. The nature of his work didn't allow for friends much outside of the service, so keeping this friendship intact was quite important to him.

"And you didn't?" John asked, sipping his tea, watching the attractive man opposite. He was still gorgeous, but some of the glitter had fallen off for John, and Bond's obvious misery left him looking a little shabby around the edges.

"We talked about it. In pornographic detail as I recall." John blushed remembering, and Bond smirked. It had been a good hours entertainment, Bond alone in 221b, John locked in the surgery office, each texting furiously with one hand while the other hand translated typed words into erotic sensation like a pair of horny teenagers. "But no, I didn't. Not for you anyway."

"Oh?"

"For Q and I. When we were staying here we were all living on top of each other, so I thought a night away might give us some space. I have a confession to make..."

He explained about Q's plan to make Sherlock jealous, keeping a careful eye on the shorter man for any sign he was going to leap from his chair, fists flying. John's face grew more incredulous as the story progressed, and gradually turned more crimson, but he remained remarkably static.

"I'm sorry," Bond finished, "it was a stupid thing to do."

John cleared his throat a couple of times; carefully setting his mug on the side table. "Um... I don't really know how to feel..." He said honestly. "Mortified that I was such an easy lay. Pathetically grateful that, however idiotic, it appears to have done the trick. The mere mention of your name has him incredibly attentive these days, which I know won't last but it's good right now. Insulted... Did you even... God this sounds self-centred, but... Did you find me attractive?"

Bond's blue eyes snapped to John's. "Yes of course I did... _Do_. I'm in a committed relationship; I didn't have my eyes removed. Had we both been single I might have pursued something with you, but I love Q very much and I need to put this right."

"I can't believe he's blaming you. Forcing you to seduce someone as gorgeous as me, what did he think would happen?" John chuckled and a moment later they were both laughing.

John made more tea as they chatted in the kitchen. "Do you know where he's staying?" Bond asked.

"No, I didn't even know he'd left until you told me."

"He's at Mycroft's," said a deep rumble from the door. "I assume you're here about Q?" Sherlock stalked towards them, eyes narrowed and focused completely on Bond who took an involuntary step backwards. "I don't know what you've done to upset my brother, he won't tell me and he's forbidden me from hurting you to find out, but if you don't fix this you will not enjoy the consequences. Do I make myself clear Bond?"

"Crystal," Bond said coolly.

Beside him John let out a breath, relieved that Sherlock at least was oblivious to the cause of the entire trauma. 00-agent or not, he didn't fancy Bond's chances of leaving the flat in one piece if Sherlock was to discover what had transpired.

"I need to see him."

"He doesn't want to speak to you." Sherlock scowled and thrust a card at him. "He'll be at this restaurant at eight tomorrow evening. Unfortunately I won't be able to join him as planned. Wear a suit, make an apology, treat him like a king." Sherlock walked to the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

"Wow," sighed John, "I think we just witnessed Sherlock trying to do something good. Make the most of it James. Good luck."

* * *

Q huddled on the expensive leather sofa, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees, listlessly watching a group of amateur bakers attempting to make a Baked Alaska. Mycroft watched Q mostly, occasionally sneaking a glance at the beautiful man on the television with the sparkling blue eyes who seemed to be some kind of judge of the bakers' talents. In most aspects his younger siblings were polar opposites but in appearance and their ability to cause him concern they were irritatingly similar. True, it was normally Sherlock curled up in mess on his furniture as a result of his ludicrous lifestyle, so it was a refreshing change for it to be Q, who was altogether less dramatic in his approach to distressing events.

"I'm still unclear on why you thought your actions could ever be construed a 'good plan'. At best it was naive, at worst, cruel to all concerned. Sherlock, yes, he can be unspeakably cruel, but it is not your nature."

Q sighed and buried his face in his knees knocking his glasses off completely, ignoring them as they tumbled to the floor. Mycroft retrieved them, folding them carefully and setting them on the sofa arm.

"I warned you of Bond's reputation, but as ever you ignored me."

"I was trying to help Sherlock. He was ruining the best thing that ever happened to him."

"By destroying your own happiness? Tremendous plan, flawlessly executed. You are not generally so careless Q, however, hitting a vase with a hammer and blaming the hammer for the resulting wreckage is unfair."

Q glared at his blurred shape. "As a metaphor that is rubbish!"

"I'm sorry. These figures of speech are... I was attempting to communicate an idea in terms you would understand."

"Simple words Myc. I think I'll cope."

Mycroft sighed. In his acerbity Q and Sherlock were a matched pair. "_Fine_! You have behaved appallingly towards your brother, lover and friend. You interfered in a relationship that was none of your concern and did so in a childish manner, recruiting your lover, who apparently has less common sense than the village idiot and more hormones than he can handle, in a plan that could only end in hurt for someone. It is rather ironic that the one to suffer most is _you_, don't you think?"

"I hate you."

"Indeed. Truth is often uncomfortable to hear."

"What do I _do_?" Q wailed, rubbing at his red rimmed eyes. Mycroft was suddenly reminded of the skinny seventeen year old that crashed on his sofa following the breakup of his first proper love affair a decade and a half earlier. _That_ Q had spent the best part of a week weeping, eating chocolate and playing mournful teenage music. Mycroft would allow some tears and confectionary this time, but if Joy Division or The Smiths even _touched_ his stereo the boy would have to be sent home to Mummy.

"An apology to both John and James would be a start. I strongly suggest you speak with both of them and consider their opinion before deciding whether or not to salve your conscience by revealing anything to Sherlock. I personally would advise against it, given Sherlock's likely reaction, but I am under no illusions that my opinion on the matter would influence you. Do please warn me if you decide to do so, so I can make up the _other_ spare bed."

"I don't think James will want to see me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, missed completely by his youngest brother who still hadn't replaced his glasses. "It is clear that the idiot man would do anything for you. You need to talk to him soon before he tumbles into his own version of 'going off the rails'. I must remember to ensure he and Sherlock never decide to compete in that respect."

"Maybe in a week or so..."

"Two days maximum or I will interfere myself. Understood? You will join Sherlock for dinner tomorrow evening so he can impart his dubious wisdom, which I trust you will ignore, and the following day you will speak to James."

"Ok," Q agreed, still slightly terrified of his big brother when he spoke so sternly even though he was over thirty.

"Good. Now can you please explain to me why we are watching this dreadful cooking programme?"

"Paul Hollywood's eyes," Q said pathetically, as though that should explain everything, finally replacing his glasses to stare fondly at the television.

It had to be said, the man really did have beautiful eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Q sat at the restaurant table sadly observing the other customers and noticing how depressingly few were not part of a couple. He didn't understand why Sherlock would choose a place like this for dinner when it was so obviously aimed at lovers. He wondered if the waiter would comment if he systematically plucked every petal from the offensive single pink rose that sat beside the apathetically flickering candle.

He took a long swallow of his drink. He wasn't a huge lover of alcohol but James had taught him a little about red wine. He had chosen a grape and region he recognised and knew he enjoyed, selecting a bottle that wasn't too extravagantly priced but was more expensive than the house red. The sommelier had nodded and smiled at his choice so hopefully it wasn't too bad. Sherlock was paying anyway; he was only here because his interfering brothers had decided it would be good for him, and Sherlock had all but threatened to make a nuisance of himself by breaking into the MI6 building. Again.

"You should really sip that," a familiar voice said, shadow falling over the table.

"J-James? What are you-?"

"Sherlock couldn't make it. He asked me to come in his place. I hope that's ok?"

"Um... Yes, I guess so. I... Why?"

"Why did he ask me? Apparently you aren't the only brother who believes interference in a relationship is a good idea."

"Oh. You shouldn't let Sherlock bully you into..."

"Q, if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be," Bond said irritably. "May I?" Q nodded and Bond poured himself some wine. He tasted it cautiously and smiled delightedly when it turned out to be good. "Pretty good choice, well done."

Q gave a half smile, fiddled with the stem of his glass. Had it been his brother sat across from him the romantic atmosphere would have seemed vaguely comical, but as it was it felt too intimate. He leaned back in his chair attempting to put a fraction more distance between them. Bond noticed the defensive shift in his posture and sighed. He hadn't expected this first meeting to be easy but had hoped Q would be open to dropping his defences enough to talk. He hadn't immediately left which must be a good sign.

"I'm sorry Q. I should have told you about John."

Might as well drag the elephant in the room right out into the open. If the evening was going to end in an argument he would prefer it to be sooner rather later. Nothing worse than enjoying a lovely date - not that this _was_ a date - only to have the memory tainted with a fight.

"Yes, you should have. Why didn't you?"

The waiter arrived by Bond's elbow with menus, presenting them with a smile and a flourish, detailing the specials which both men only half listened to. It gave Bond a breathing space to consider his answer carefully.

"I didn't want to hurt you. I know we'd joked about how far I might have to go to get your brother to notice what was going on but I didn't honestly expect to sleep with him."

Q's face was stony, mouth set. It didn't have quite the ring of truth to it knowing what he'd read of the messages retrieved from Bond's phone. "Surprise was it? Suddenly realise you're inside another man and think _oh how did that happen_?"

Bond paled at Q's bitter tone, fingers gripping his glass that had stalled halfway to his mouth. He carefully set it down and pushed his chair away from the table, considered leaving, but Q's eyes were brimming with tears and he found he couldn't walk away. "I deserved that," he said instead, prepared to accept that ultimately he'd been the one to transgress, whatever the circumstances.

"How was flirting when Sherlock wasn't around supposed to help? If he wasn't aware of it he could hardly be jealous could he?" Q said softly, brushing a single angry tear from his cheek that had dared to escape his rapid blinking.

"I know, but if I'd switched my attention off and on John would have realised something wasn't quite right. He's not thick; it wouldn't take long for him to realise I was only trying it on when Sherlock was present. It's about building a character Q, selling a fully rounded out idea of the man I am and what I want from my mark."

Q nodded, considering. He turned his attention to the menu to give himself time to process what James had told him. James did likewise and when the waiter reappeared they ordered. They were eating apparently. James accepted it as another positive sign.

"When did you-? How many times?" Q asked when the waiter left.

"Q-?"

"No, please. I need to know."

Bond sighed, pushed a hand through his hair, stared at the deep red liquid in his glass. He couldn't see how it would make it better for Q to know the details. It certainly didn't lessen the guilt to tell them, but if Q needed to know...

"The texting you know about, thanks to Q-branch snooping." Q shot him a sharp look that made him physically wince. "Sorry. A blow job in the bathroom one day before he went to work. You had already left, Sherlock was asleep. Sex in the living room, once only, the day before we decided to stop the project. I expected Sherlock home to interrupt us before... Well he didn't come home, and I didn't call a halt to proceedings."

"Thank you," sniffed Q. "I appreciate your honesty even though it's far too late."

"Too late?" echoed Bond sadly. "Well at least I know for sure. I should have gone with my instincts and refused to get involved but I never was any good at saying no to you." A dull ache settled behind his breast bone, hollow and cold. He had no appetite for food but he suddenly couldn't bear to leave Q. He drained his wine glass far too quickly, refilled it, made a decision. "I went to see John yesterday."

Q's head shot up, shadowy green eyes wide, alarmed. "W-why would-?" His stomach plummeted. James wouldn't... He _couldn't_... He grabbed his own glass, put it down without drinking, hands shaking noticeably. "Are you-? Oh god, you and John are-"

"Friends Q, that's all. I told him everything. He knows about the plan, why I was interested, that it was all an act. I won't lie to you this time though; in my head it was a job, but I enjoyed it more than I should. You need to know that putting me in that position threatened our relationship. You shouldn't have encouraged that, any more that I should have agreed to do it, but I'm angry with you for laying the blame solely at my door. I don't think John was impressed but he's not angry with us. Sherlock doesn't know and I agree with John that it serves no purpose to tell him. There's enough fallout."

Q was crying silently, wet tracks trailing over his cheeks. Bond reached out and gently wiped one away with a gentle caress of his thumb. "I'm sorry..."

"Q this doesn't have to be the end. God knows I don't want it to be. I love you so much it hurts."

"I can't trust you," Q blurted out. "I want to but... I'm questioning every mission and how much you've omitted to tell me."

"I've always been truthful. You've spent most of my missions in my ear so you know who, when, where and why. I still tell you everything; document the less sensational details in my reports."

"But how do I _know_ I can trust you?"

Bond tilted his chin up with the light press of one finger until their eyes met. "You don't. You have to _choose_ to. Again, being honest, I won't cut a useful tool out of my arsenal, but I will always make sure you know when I use it, and it will become my last resort. This is who I am Q, the flirt, the tease, and the man you love. If that's changed _so_ significantly then perhaps we need to make the break now. Is that what you want?"

Q shook his head, gave a weak smile, just as the waiter arrived with their meal. He set Q's plate down first, professionally ignoring the young man's tears, although he cast a faint frown in Bond's direction as the most obvious source of the poor boy's distress. Bond smiled back sweetly, a touch of steel bleeding into his eyes.

They ate mostly in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Bond wasn't subtle in his glances, was more so in his occasional touches. The brush of his fingers over the back of Q's hand where it rested on the table sent a light shiver down the other man's spine. No question they missed each other, but Q removed his hand soon after, not quite prepared to move on so quickly.

"I don't want to move back home. Not yet anyway."

"Ok, that's... Ok for now."

The wine bottle was empty, dessert declined. Over the course of the meal both had relaxed and some of the easy banter had returned. Bond paid and escorted Q from the restaurant with a light touch on his back, comfortably familiar. "Can I escort you home?" Bond said with a cheeky smile.

"Mycroft's sent a car. I can give you a lift?"

"I think I'll walk, nice night."

"Ok."

"Q...?" Bond caught his hand loosely and lifted it to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to his knuckles. Q collapsed into giggles at the old-fashioned gesture, and Bond tugged him into his arms to kiss him properly. Q's arms slid around his neck, his lips moving with his lover's, tongues sliding together. "I love you, remember that."

Q nodded. "I remember."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: It would appear that I am incapable of writing a happy story, so apologies. Dear readers, more angst...**

"June twenty-seventh is a good date, don't you think?" Sherlock had been prone on the sofa for well over two hours, fingers idly toying with a cigarette he had no intention of smoking, lost in thought. John physically jumped when his voice rumbled into the room.

"Well, it's no March the fourth, or September the eighteenth, but as dates go it's not bad I suppose."

"If you were already in favour of another date perhaps we should discuss it?"

John sighed, dropping his newspaper into his lap. "Sherlock, give me a clue?"

"Setting a date is traditional I believe once a proposal is accepted. It's three months since we became engaged, yet we have not set a date for our wedding."

"Oh." John hadn't really thought much about wedding planning, and Sherlock hadn't brought it up at all since the evening John had presented him with a ring and asked him to be his husband.

"I had thought," the detective continued, "that you were content with the status quo, or that the ring on my finger marked me as yours therefore you had no need of formal ceremony to confirm it, however now I am considering other possibilities."

"Such as?"

"Perhaps you wish to return to your single days, with the sexual freedom that offers?"

"What are you talking about Sherlock? Did I fall asleep and miss half a conversation?"

"When we ran into Q last week he answered your three questions politely and succinctly, with none of his usual embellishment."

John had an uncomfortable feeling scratching at the inside of his skull. "I got my answers, no need for extraneous detail. And this has precisely _what_ to do with sexual freedom?"

"He was angry. With _you_, actually. It confirmed what I already suspected. I believe a 'final fling' prior to a marriage is common, but I wondered if it was perhaps something more."

Sherlock knew. Of course he bloody knew, he observed everything, analysed everything, but it was rare of him to know something significant and yet restrain himself enough not to comment on it. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"How long have you known?" he breathed. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, and that was just bloody unnerving.

"For sure, since we saw Q. As three out of the four interested parties appeared to be cognisant of the full story, it seems the right time to confess my awareness."

"For fuck's sake Sherlock, I've just pretty much confirmed I've had an affair and you act like you're not even bothered. Don't you care?"

With a sudden burst of movement the dark haired man was sitting upright glaring right back.

"Of course I care! How exactly would you like me to _express_ said caring?" He demanded.

"Hell I don't know. Normal people would get angry, scream, shout, _break_ things! At least sodding well _react_!" John yelled.

Sherlock's large feet hit the floor with a thump, striding across the room to his side table where he plucked a bone china tea cup and dropped it on the floor. It tinkled into three pieces scattering minute droplets of tea across the hearth. "There, all fixed! No less painful and now we're short of a cup! Superb!"

"Oh that was just- aargh!" John threw up his arms in frustration. Sherlock didn't have a clue, never would.

"Did the sex meet your needs?"

"My _needs_-? Jesus Christ!" John looked skywards and contemplated punching his fiancé. He should have expected something like this, it was inconceivable that Sherlock wouldn't have deduced the extent of the relationship, but he waited until now to say anything, when things had supposedly getting better between them.

"Was it satisfying?"

Anger bubbled up, white hot. "_What?_ I bloody _came_, is that what you want to hear? Emotionally unfulfilling because it wasn't the man I wanted to be with, but yes Sherlock, I fucking achieved orgasm. Are you happy with that? Does it answer why I did it?"

"No! You said sex didn't matter."

"I lied!" Sherlock looked like he'd been slapped, shock registering in every fibre of his body. "Shit! Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"I don't know what you want me to say to that John! It hurts, and it's upsetting and confusing, and I want it not to have happened. My insides feel shaken up like- like I want to- and I can't even _speak_ because I don't have the words to express how angry-"

He collapsed to the floor in an untidy pile of limbs and curls, sagging into himself, breathing raggedly, and John was left staring at the top of his head. Slowly he lowered himself to the floor too, leaning against his chair for support. He reached out a hand to the other man. "Sherlock-?"

"You lied," he said dully.

"Yes, I'm truly sorry. I wanted to be with you more than anything so I told you sex wasn't important to me. I thought I could make it not matter, but I miss the proper intimacy of a relationship. Not just sex. I miss holding and being held, casual touches and hugs, spending time curled up with a partner just being together and loving each other."

"And Bond gave you that?" Sherlock snorted.

"No, but I saw what he had with Q and tried to take a little of it for myself but that was never going to work. Ultimately it was just fucking the wrong man."

"And am I the right one?"

"Yes! Oh god, emphatically _yes_!"

"It would seem we are incompatible in several rather important areas."

John cradled Sherlock's unresponsive fingers, tracing nervous circles over his knuckles. "Not incompatible, just a bit mismatched. I have no complaints, _none at all_, about the quality, but I need to know you want me because you never seem to show it. If you still do..."

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I want some time to think."

"Oh right. I thought-?"

"Thought I'd be fine with it? Put it behind us and move on? No, I don't think so. I'm not asking you to move out, but I think it best if you move back to your old room while we resolve this, one way or the other."

"I- ok, if that's what you want?"

"It is. Here, keep it safe."

John stared numbly at the ring in the palm of his hand. "I- right."


	5. Chapter 5

Bond had long since lost interest in the movie, some awful romantic comedy that Q had found on one of the movie channels and declared one of his favourites. The younger man was stretched out in front of him, laying between his legs, leaning back against Bond's chest and it felt so good to have him there. Bond's lips roamed over Q's neck and shoulder, dropping tiny kisses wherever he could reach that made the hairs on the back of Q's neck prickle deliciously.

"You're gorgeous," Bond whispered, fingers deftly dealing with the buttons of Q's shirt so he could glide his hands over his young lover's warm skin, drifting lightly over the ribs that were too prominent and down over his stomach to tease along the edge of his trousers. Q twisted slightly so they could kiss, mouths joining languidly, tasting whisky on Bond's lips. He could feel Bond wanted more, was tempted to give in, but it was too soon. Reluctantly he pushed away.

"I should go," he murmured, kissing James once more for luck, a light brush of lips no more.

Bond trapped him in a circle of muscular arms and legs, keeping him in place. "You want to stay." His lips pressed for more, twisting with irritation when Q pulled back.

"No, I want to _go_," he said firmly, wriggling away from Bond who begrudgingly freed him with an angry huff.

"When are you going to stop punishing me so we can get back to normal? This isn't fair Q," he said petulantly.

Q walked into the kitchen, determined to catch his temper this time and not erupt. Getting angry every time Bond challenged him had proved unhelpful so far, and Mycroft had advised a different approach. Bond followed, glass of single malt in one hand, rest of the bottle in the other. He set the bottle on the counter, trapping Q against the units with his hips and taking a swallow from his overfilled glass.

"Fighting over who was more wrong isn't ever going to help us get over it." Q said reasonably, doing his best to ignore the rapidly disappearing spirit. There were too many empty bottles in the recycle bin these days but Q would be damned if he allowed himself to take the blame for that too.

Bond nuzzled at his neck, lower body pressed against Q's groin leaving him in no doubt what he wanted. "Let's go to bed. You know you want to. Put that right and everything else will follow."

His breath smelled of peat-smoke, vanilla and alcohol when he tried to capture Q's lips. Q turned away, pushing him gently but firmly backwards. "The sad thing is I really think you believe that, and it's not just your libido or the booze talking. You always assume you know what I want, or that what _you_ want trumps it. Try _asking_ me once in a while and actually _listening_ to the answer."

Bond growled and downed the rest of his glass, storming away from him. Q looked mildly irritated with his attitude but was otherwise calm and it made Bond uncomfortable.

"You're not yelling." He grumbled.

Q looked at him blankly and shrugged. "So?"

"I find it harder to argue with you when you aren't yelling. I'm going to bed. See yourself out." He walked abruptly out of the kitchen with whisky in hand and shut himself in the bedroom. Q left, shaking his head and taking two fresh bottles with him.

Q was the picture of concentration the following day, subtly weaving strings of code into a Trojan that would enable access to the main servers of a Middle Eastern oil company with links to international terrorism. Bond stalked into Q's office and set the bottle to the right of his laptop. "I brought lunch," he said gruffly.

Q glanced at the bottle, noted there was barely an inch of the golden liquid remaining, and pulled a face. "Bit early for me, thanks." He said drily just as the sandwich and crisps hit the desk to his left.

"_That's_ lunch," Bond said unnecessarily, "and _that's_ an apology."

Q silently unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite and regarded the whisky. "So you either came to your senses before you finished it, or you passed out."

"The former. You were right and I'm sorry."

"I usually am but what was I right about this time?" he leaned back in his chair, left foot resting on his right knee. "You look dreadful by the way."

"Are you going to be snarky, or are you going to let me apologise?" Q waved a hand in a gesture reminiscent of his elder brother that managed to look even more snarky than the original comment and munched on his sandwich, waiting for Bond to continue. "You were right, I make assumptions, and sometimes I don't listen or I deliberately misinterpret things to my advantage. It's served me well in my career."

Q snorted. "It almost gets you killed on a regular basis, but keep believing..."

"Will you _hush_?" Bond snapped. "I'm very sorry Q, I will try to do better and I'll try to stop behaving like a complete arse just because I want to fix things quicker than you do. We can take all the time you need and I'll stop hassling you."

Q dropped his sandwich back into its packet, and reached for his crisps. "And this?" He said pointing at the bottle.

"Finished, I'm done. You can put that with the other bottles you stole."

"Removed for your own good." Bond sensibly didn't comment. After a few moments Q said "I think we're doing better than Sherlock and John."

"Oh?"

"I saw Sherlock today. He didn't say anything, and I didn't pry, but he's not wearing his engagement ring. I'm worried we made things so much worse for them instead of helping."

"Shit! Does Mycroft know?"

"I asked him and he told me to stay out of it and not meddle this time. As if I would!"

Bond groaned. "You're going to aren't you?"

"He's my brother..."

"No Q, even if I have to sit on you, you are _not_ going to help them any further!"

There was a knock and the couple looked up to see Tanner framed in the doorway, stack of manila files clutched against his chest. "M needs you both in his office, ten minutes. Mission brief."

Bond sighed with relief and grinned at Q. "Well that should keep your brother safe from you for now."


	6. Chapter 6

John fiddled with the ring, turning it over and over in his fingers, slipping it on and off the tip of his thumb. Sherlock had asked him to keep it safe, which meant he hoped to wear it again one day. Didn't it? He couldn't bear to leave it lying in a drawer, so he'd carefully transferred it between pockets, jeans to jacket, coat to cardigan, until this morning when he'd spent a frantic ten minutes looking for it when it slipped through a hole and rolled across the bedroom carpet. Since then he'd had it gripped in his hand tightly, too afraid to let it go, the heat of his skin warming the still too-shiny metal.

"Scotland Yard have called about a case. Would you care to accompany me?"

Their words had turned careful, formal even. It felt like a return to the early days of their flat-share, when neither knew the other very well and was nervous of doing anything to cause upset. Well, John had been nervous; Sherlock had been his usual bizarre self. John hated the distance between them, but understood that Sherlock thought it was necessary. He smiled up at the taller man, slipping the ring onto his right hand, mirroring the one on his left that he refused to remove. He would keep it safe by keeping it close. Sherlock noticed and gave a faint smile, the barest of nods.

"Yes, very much. Thank you."

They caught a cab easily, Sherlock giving the driver the address of a building across town, and they joined the morning flow of traffic. The tube would have been quicker, but Sherlock preferred the luxury of cabs. John watched him come alive as he relayed the details of the case Lestrade had reported.

"Murder of a hotel chambermaid," Sherlock was explaining. "Several million pounds missing from two dozen bank accounts, and a delivery of flowers and chocolates made in error to the security guard of the building next door."

"Connected?"

"Three significant events within a half mile radius."

"How is a wrong delivery significant? Happens all the time surely?"

"All three relate to the name Abbeywell. The chamber maid was found in the room of a guest named Abbeywell; the missing money was paid to someone of the same name. And the security guard is also named..."

"Abbeywell. Curious. No other connections?"

"Not that Lestrade and his cretins have discovered so far. Probably only rates a three but I thought we should get out of the flat, breathe some different air, perhaps focus on something else for a while?"

John gaped at him. Sherlock allocated his mental faculties completely to whatever problem most interested him, and if a case didn't rate at least a six he rarely bothered at all these days, such was his reputation. Sherlock did _not_ take trivial cases that he would normally consider beneath him as a means of distraction from personal issues. The detective squeezed John's fingers briefly, brushing the gold band that sat on the wrong hand, and suddenly John understood. Sherlock was doing this for _him_. A distraction, yes, but without words he was telling him he still cared, that all was not lost. John felt his spirits raise the tiniest fraction and turned his attention to the Abbeywell case.

They worked together with practiced ease, Sherlock making deductions, John asking the pertinent questions. Lestrade hovered at the edge of the crime scene and observed two men who loved each other immensely, separated by something painful that neither had the balls to tackle. John's face couldn't quite achieve its normal cheerful aspect and Sherlock's eyes continually drifted towards his partner when the other man was occupied. Lestrade noticed the absence of Sherlock's ring, but not that John wore it, twisting its unfamiliarity distractedly.

"What's he done this time?" He asked John quietly while Sherlock tapped at the bank computer terminal.

"Not him, me." John said sadly.

"_You?_" Lestrade could count on one hand the number of times John Watson had genuinely upset Sherlock. "Sort it out mate. You're both hurting."

"I know," he acknowledged, "I'm just not sure how."

Sherlock solved the case in less than hour, declared it a two at best and named Lestrade an imbecile, with a fond sarcasm only the three men would recognise. Lestrade beamed, and briefly gripped John's shoulder in a show of support for the resolution of their troubles. "Talk to him, even if it's difficult. Crawl if necessary, you're stronger together."

Later in Baker Street with mugs of tea and a stomach full of butterflies John tentatively asked "can we talk?"

Sherlock gave him his best closed look, the enthusiastic joy of the Work folded away behind a curtain of protective blankness. His hands rested on the arms of his chair, long fingers folding around the ends tensely. "I... I'm sorry."

"Why are _you_ sorry? You've nothing to be sorry _for_." John frowned.

"I'm not good at expressing myself through physical contact John. Being loving and affectionate is not something that comes easily to me."

"I know that. Always known that. I should have spoken to you about the way I was feeling but I didn't know how without putting you under pressure to give more than you were comfortable with."

"You didn't give me the opportunity to try."

"No I didn't. Equally you didn't notice that I was struggling."

"I knew you were unhappy with me."

"No! Never unhappy with you. I just needed to feel wanted. Desired. When I love someone... As I love you... I want to be physical with them." John blushed to his roots. In his entire forty odd years talking about sex with a partner usually entailed some kind of filthy language uttered as part of a torrid sexual engagement. This grown up discussion felt almost clinical in comparison.

Sherlock was equally puce; a colour John had never seen his lover wear. "I like sex with you." He said simply, and John snorted an inappropriately childish giggle.

"I _love_ sex with you; you're pretty good at it. What I'd really enjoy is flirting and cuddling.

Sherlock's face drained from red to white in an instant. "I'm not sure I can flirt."

"You do it all the time! Not in an obvious way like James- um, you know, not _blatantly_, but you do it with Molly and Greg. With anyone you wish to charm. It doesn't have to be explicit; you just have to pay me some attention and not take me for granted. Be idle on the sofa with me and watch crap telly. Take me on a proper date. Snuggle in bed after sex for longer than twenty minutes. If you can't be bothered with sex, give me a bloody hand job. I know all of those things are hard for you, but it's what I need in a relationship, in a marriage."

"OK." Sherlock swallowed, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I will agree to try to do those things for you."

"Ok." John gave a tentative smile. "I know it will take time Sherlock, I'm not expecting things to suddenly become fantastic, and I won't pressure you to go faster than you want to. I'm grateful that you even want to try after what I did."

"I didn't know what to do. I hated seeing you respond to Bond's advances, but I could see why you did, and I despised myself for not being able to compete. I wanted to kill him, but Q said it was nothing to worry about. Clearly he was deluding himself."

"They have their own issues, most of them down to Bond's pig-headed arrogance, but they love one another and they're trying to make the best of it."

Sherlock hummed doubtfully. After everything, his younger brother's continued association with the 00-agent was a sore point, and Sherlock hated that John and Bond appeared to still have some kind of friendship.

"This is a two way thing Sherlock. What do you need from me?" John asked softly. His fingers unconsciously played over the ring on his right hand. It was tempting for Sherlock to ask John to sever his friendship with Bond, but that would prove awkward if Sherlock wished to maintain contact with his brother.

"I need your patience and your love. I need you to tell me if I'm neglecting you. I need your warm body in my bed even if I only curl next to you for a few hours at a time. I need you to bring me tea when I'm ranting at the world. I need you to stare into the fireplace lost in thought while I play my violin. I need you to tell me I'm being an arse. Eventually… one day… I need you to return my ring and tell me that we're ready to take that step."

John smiled, although there were tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. "I can do that. What's more, I'll be happy to." He went to Sherlock and brushed his curls off his forehead, dropping a light kiss on the exposed skin. "l love you. Thank you for the chance to prove it."


	7. Chapter 7

In retrospect it was a spectacularly bad time to indulge in a screaming row. Bond was due to leave for a London-based mission within the hour and had visited Q-branch to collect his equipment and make arrangements for Q to direct his navigation of the occupied embassy later that evening. SAS troops were on standby to storm the building as soon as Bond had liberated certain key data regarding terrorist targets; negotiators were already working to secure the release of a handful of civilian hostages.

Q had caught the whiff of alcohol on Bond's breath as he handed over the small case containing his gun and radio and had called him on it. Within two minutes he and Bond were facing off across Q's desk, spitting curses like a couple of feral cats battling over a dead pigeon, and Q-branch were scurrying around outside debating whether or not to call M, or Tanner at the very least.

"You fucking arrogant bastard! There are civilians at risk and you're proposing to go in there half-fucking-cut. You're not fit, James!"

"I'm fit enough to do my bloody job Q, now give me my damned equipment and get back to your stupid desk job until I need you."

"My stupid desk job keeps you alive! I can't do much if you're intent on killing yourself!"

"Fine, I'm sorry I said it. I'm fit, I'm sober and I need to fucking _go_ Q."

They glared at one another, still furious though the yelling had petered out. Q felt too weary to deal with Bond's drinking any more. He should inform M that 007 was not fit for duty. He wouldn't and Bond knew it.

"Go then. Just don't get anyone else killed."

"Look, I _am_ sorry, but you keep going on about it and-"

"'Sorry' is just a word 007, it doesn't hold a great deal of meaning for you. You've been saying sorry for months now but there's no sincerity behind it. It's always tempered with some way of you directing the blame elsewhere, usually onto me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? I'll give you two examples then. Sorry I fucked your friend Q, but you didn't specifically tell me you would have a problem with it. Or how about, sorry I'm drunk again Q but you're making me miserable by not _forgiving_ the fact I fucked your friend."

"That's not-"

"Fair? Yes, you throw that one out a lot too. It isn't fair that I have to keep taking this crap from you."

"So why do it?"

Q was silent for a long moment. "Just leave Bond. You have a job to do, if you're able. Connection will be established at eighteen hundred hours."

"Perfect!"

The door rattled on its hinges when Bond stormed out.

"Progress report 007, now!"

"Download in progress, nearly done." Bond snapped back.

"Ok I need you moving ASAP. Things have gone to hell upstairs. You've been detected and they're shooting hostages. Troops mobilised to get them out, but you need to get the hell out of there. You'll have hostile company in less than three minutes."

"Can't make the download any faster Q."

"Then blow the whole fucking lot and abandon ship, M's orders."

"Forgot to pack my explosives, how remiss of me," the 00-agent grumbled quietly, urging the data to download faster and listening out for approaching bodies.

"Mobile phone modification. Once I send the activation code you'll need to enter it into the app I'm deploying now. You'll have thirty seconds so don't hang around."

"An app?" Bond said incredulously.

"There's an app for everything these days 007 including levelling a server room."

Bond gave a wry smile at his lover's flash of sarcasm and tried to ignore the fact he'd apparently been carrying a powerful explosive device in his pocket, completely unaware, for the last few weeks. Presumably Q was satisfied with the stability of said device! The phone beeped in his pocket and he extracted it with a new found distrust.

"Download finished!" Bond snatched the USB from its socket just as a shot ricocheted from a server rack six inches above his head.

"Fucks sake Q, warning would be nice," he growled as he returned fire, ducking behind a large piece of computer equipment. Not quick enough however. The white hot sting of the bullet entering his thigh had him cursing up a storm and the room wavered for a couple of seconds as adrenaline spiked. Pain later, enemy to terminate. He fell still, allowing the man to creep further into the room. "How many?" He breathed, and Q answered with a short "just one, rest are ten minutes away."

He watched the shadow on the wall grow larger, gauging his moment. The terrorist carried his gun high, telegraphing where he expected the attack to come. Bond waited silently, tensed, then launched his body sideways rolling across the floor and shooting upwards into the shocked man's body. The first took him in the stomach, the second in the throat. He pitched forward with a bubbling cry, unfortunately landing mostly on Bond.

"Report 007."

"Shots fired, hostile eliminated."

"And you?" He could hear the edge of concern in Q's tone beneath the professionalism. Thank god for the lack of visual. His leg was painful and was going to limit his speed but he should be able to get out. Blood was seeping rather than streaming so nothing vital had been hit and the bullet was plugging the flow somewhat.

"Fine." He located the new app, entered the code, and stared at the screen that flickered briefly between 24...23...24... Before settling on 23... 22... "Thirty seconds you said?"

"Yes, but you're going to have to run like the hounds of hell are after you. Left through the doors, third right, emergency exit on your right. You'll do it in twenty-five."

"Great!" He slid the phone across the floor scrambling to his feet, ignoring the screaming agony from his leg. He made it to the second right turn before the world exploded.

"No!" Screamed Q ripping the earpiece from his head to protect his own hearing from the massive explosion that tore through the building. Too early, too _fucking_ early! What the hell-? He battled to reseat it in his ear, barking orders at stunned Q-branch kids, yelling at someone to get M, Tanner, emergency services, any-fucking-one!

The line was still open, mercilessly transmitting the after effects of the destruction as rubble fell and crashed, then - _dear god_ \- a groan. "James-?" Q yelled down the line, not even trying to conceal his panic. "James can you hear-?"

"Fuck, stop shouting Q. The ringing in my ears is bad enough."

"Oh thank god. Injury report, now!"

Bond shuffled, cataloguing his injuries, deciding which to report back. "Broken arm, possibly collar bone and ribs too. Gunshot wound to thigh. Cuts and bruises." He sniffed and rubbed at his nose, hand coming away covered in blood. "Nose bleed, bang to the head..."

"Head injury?"

"Guess so. Hurts."

"Environment? Are you able to get out?"

"Negative. Made it to the corridor but you blew the wall out. Ceiling has collapsed between me and the door."

"Ok, hang in there, we'll get to you. Keep the line open."

M appeared at his elbow. "Update?"

"Possible head injury, bullet wound, broken bones. No exit route. We need to send a team in."

"We can't get near at the moment Quartermaster, not our show. Recovery of the hostages is priority, plus termination of remaining aggressors. Only when those objectives are reached will our access be authorised." M looked at him steadily, heavy weight of his gaze pressing on Q's worries.

"We can't wait that long!"

"Q, it's Ok. It's protocol." Bond said in his ear.

"No!"

"I'm fine, just... Keep talking to me please? It's bloody lonely in here."

Q hated to hear that word from Bond. "You only ever say 'fine' when you're a long way from it," he said quietly. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing." Bond looked about him at the pocket of corridor he had miraculously been thrown into. Water was seeping along the floor soaking into his trousers, chilling him. Sparks issued from the electrical debris of what had once been the server room, and Bond looked at the potential deadly mix with trepidation. "Pain is a bit intense, and I'm bleeding again but otherwise fine."

"Can you stop it, put pressure on it?"

"Broken arm Q. makes it bloody difficult."

"_Try_!"

Bond winced at the command that was laced with tangible concern. He managed to manoeuvre himself to a seated position leaning against the door but being more upright made his head swim. He closed his eyes against the wave of agony that seemed to assault him from all sides simultaneously and concentrated on breathing deeply until the dizziness receded.

"You're swearing a lot," observed Q.

"I do that when I'm in pain," he groaned testily. Curses issued freely as he struggled out of his jacket and shirt. There was no way he had the strength to tear the cotton so he wrapped the entire shirt around his thigh, leaning on it with his injured arm and tugging it tighter. It was barely adequate but might slow the blood loss. Unfortunately the exertion had started his nose bleeding again. He huddled, shivering under his jacket and tried to ignore every screaming nerve and the wooziness that threatened to engulf him.

"James-?"

"Hm?"

"You've gone quiet. Are you ok?"

"Um-hm." he was cold and tired but he was ok he thought. The pain was a bitch but maybe didn't feel as bad as it had. He knew with certainty that was a bad thing and he was suddenly scared. "Any chance of a rescue sometime soon? I'm not feeling too good."

Q made a panicky sound in his ear. Damn, he shouldn't have admitted that, Q didn't need to know, he would only worry.

"We're working on it," he said tightly, and Bond could hear him round on M _demanding_ that his superior send someone in _now_, or so help him he would resign on the spot! It would do no good. Civilians and targets, they were the priority. He had done his job and done it well. He would be next in line.

"Q-?" His voice was shaky, damn.

"Yes." As was Q's.

"I'm sorry for everything. Deeply and sincerely sorry. I am such a shit. I don't know why you love me or put up with me."

"Shut up," Q almost sobbed, "we have a fight to finish when you get back. Then you can apologise properly. Not now."

Bond chuckled, coughed, retched and coughed again, almost passing out from the pain. He was quiet for long minutes, Q repeating his name frantically.

"Still here," he gasped. "Love you so much."

Q was openly crying, not giving a damn who saw. "James, please... Your blood pressure is dropping, can you stop the bleeding?" Practical things, he would cling to those fucking practical things and James would listen and follow instructions and he would be _fine_.

M was removing his ear piece and Q lost all sense of coherency descending into plain terror. "He's still with us Q; I just need to give him some instructions." M said firmly, lying with his eyes.

Soft but strongly determined arms were around him, pulling him onto a chair that someone had brought. Eve held him against her chest and let him cry, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "They're going in for him now Q. Almost got him love." She didn't tell him it would be alright. She didn't know.


	8. Chapter 8

"How is he?"

"In surgery. Swelling and bleed on the brain. They don't know how severe," Q said tonelessly, looking up with some gratitude at the short blond man who was pressing a cardboard cup of hospital tea into his free hand. His other hand was firmly laced with the hand of a dark haired young woman who had her arm around his shoulders, fingers lightly tracing patterns on his upper arm.

"John Watson," the blond man introduced himself, "and this is Q's elder brother, Sherlock Holmes."

"Eve Moneypenny. Friend, colleague, surrogate sister," she smiled sadly, and Sherlock gave a wry smile at the last. It didn't surprise him that Q would adopt a girlfriend to provide him with everything his elder brothers lacked in the sibling department. Currently she was excelling at giving Q comforting physical contact that would have been well beyond the elder Holmes brothers.

John handed Sherlock a cellophane wrapped sandwich from the canteen. "I'm going to see if I can get an update. They may not tell me anything until he's out of theatre, but I can try. Sherlock, try to get him to eat."

Sherlock unwrapped the sandwich and tore off a minute corner, holding it out to Q who looked at him reproachfully, but then obediently opened his mouth when Eve said "Eat." It felt like sawdust in his mouth, but he chewed, swallowed, took a swig of the tooth-rottingly sweet tea.

"Six sugars for shock," Sherlock commented, continuing to offer up tiny mouthfuls of sandwich as though he was feeding treats to a nervous kitten. Q managed seven or eight bites before he flatly refused to eat more, turning his head like a stubborn toddler to bury himself in Eve's shoulder. She shared a concerned look with the older brother, and wrapped her arms around Q tightly letting him shake through another mild panic attack.

John returned just as the eldest Holmes pushed through the glass doors. "They're finishing up, but they won't know anything for a while. The bleed was smaller than they thought, which is good, but the damage won't be evident until he regains consciousness. They'll keep him in an induced coma for twenty four hours, so we should take Q home to get some sleep."

Q shook his head vigorously. "I'm not leaving. You can't make me. Eve?"

"Hush, love. They're right, you can't do anything sitting in here, and you need to rest. How about I see if we can get you a relatives' room? That way you're here if anything happens, but you can sleep."

"I'll attend to it," Mycroft said, gently closing his hand on Q's shoulder as he left the room again. Mycroft was an organiser, not a consoler. He showed his love and care for his brothers by attending to the practicalities to make their lives run more smoothly. For the most part they were ungrateful, but Mycroft did it anyway.

"What about his other injuries?" Q regained enough composure to ask.

"They're dealing with them now that the more serious issue is under control. The bullet has been removed and the leg dressed, but I think they'll wait to set his arm."

"Thank you John." The doctor nodded.

"The medical team here are excellent, but if you need a translator for the jargon I offer my services."

The doors swung again and the surgeon entered, heading straight for Q, who stood immediately, his face a picture of worry. The doctor offered his hand, introduced himself with a slight smile. Reassuring, confident, firm handshake. "Your partner is doing as well as can be expected, there are no concerning issues at the moment. The operation went well, and the damage wasn't as bad as we feared, however the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be key. He'll be moved to the intensive care ward shortly, and once settled you'll be allowed to see him for a few minutes. I'll assess him again in the morning, but it's likely we'll keep him sedated for at least twenty-four hours. It's natural for you to worry, but he'll receive the best care, and we'll keep you apprised of his treatment and progress."

Q smiled shakily, still clinging to Eve's arm. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Get some rest young man. Your partner will need you in the coming weeks."

They persuaded Q to stay in a relatives' room on condition that someone else stayed in the hospital with him. Eve was exhausted, so after hugging Q tightly and promising to keep her phone close by, Mycroft insisted on driving her home. Sherlock sent John with them, volunteering to stay on the grounds that he didn't need to sleep anyway. A look of understanding passed between the two eldest Holmes brothers. In their own way they would take care of Q, as they always had. Before they left John bent a few rules and found a sympathetic doctor who issued Q with some Temazepam, which John made sure he swallowed.

Q slept, managing five decent hours of undisturbed rest thanks to the medication. He woke just after nine, slightly groggy and disorientated in a strange room, with his brother dozing in the chair jammed in the narrow space between the single bed and the wall. Sherlock stirred when Q sat up, looking at his brother with something that might have been concern. "How are you?" he asked gruffly, morning voice needing the lubricant of tea to smooth it.

"Is there any news?" he asked instead of answering Sherlock's question.

"Not yet. You need breakfast."

"Not hungry."

"Didn't say you were. You will, however, eat breakfast with me in the canteen before I allow you anywhere near the ward."

"You sound like Mycroft," Q needled, smiling faintly at Sherlock's affronted glare.

He had intended only to have a cup of Earl Grey and maybe a choc chip muffin, but the smell of bacon had his stomach rumbling and he suddenly realised that, in spite of his worry, he was starving. He loaded up a full English breakfast, or the closest the canteen could manage, along with a Danish pastry, banana, the muffin and a large pot of tea, and tucked in ravenously. Sherlock, who struggled with the whole idea of breakfast in general, accepted a plate of scrambled eggs on toast and a bucket-sized cup of tea that was so strong it looked as if it could hold a spoon upright.

An hour later Q was at Bond's bedside, surprisingly comfortable with the array of machines that loomed around the bed whirring and beeping. It was all just tech after all and the smiling nurse who had welcomed him into the room had explained that none of them were actually doing the job of keeping Bond alive; he was managing that perfectly well on his own.

"He looks like he's been abducted by aliens for experimentation," Q joked nervously. There was barely a part of his lover that wasn't bandaged or attached to some form of medical apparatus.

"He'll feel like it when he wakes up," said Lynn, the grinning Scottish nurse. Q liked her immediately. "He's not technically asleep and can probably hear you, so just talk to him as you normally would. You get used to one sided conversation in here."

"I don't think you'd enjoy that much. We're usually either fucking or fighting these days. Sorry!" He blushed to his roots when he realised what he'd said but Lynn chuckled totally unphased by his language.

"You need some bumps in the road to make you appreciate the smooth stretches. Ten more minutes then off home with you. Get a shower, hot meal and a nap. I'll only let you back in here if your friend out there confirms you've done all three, ok?"

Q looked up at the glass door to see that Sherlock had been replaced by John. It felt a little strange handing himself over to be cared for by the man he'd almost hated twenty-four hours earlier but now he just felt grateful to have him there as support. He kissed Bond's cheek and promised to return in an hour or two, then allowed Lynn to chase him out the door.

"Hi," John said, a little nervously.

"Thanks for being here."

"Oh, ok. No problem. Sherlock has fallen asleep in your bed I'm afraid. I thought it best to leave him."

Q grinned. Sherlock had to crash from tiredness eventually and at least he'd found a bed this time even if it was in a hospital. "Yes, leave him. I need to go home, get fresh clothes and stuff."

Mycroft had left a car, another little practicality that Q loved him for. He sent a quick text of thanks and settled into the back seat while John gave him an update in layman's terms of what he'd gleaned from the medical staff that morning.

"So he'll wake up today?"

"No guarantees Q. They'll withdraw the medication that's keeping him sedated and then it's up to him. His surgeon is very happy with his progress though."

John had never been inside Mycroft's flat, and when he looked around its pristine interior he decided it was a place he could never find comfortable. Army life had trained him to be neat, but this place was clean and tidy to an obsessive degree, or at least it _was_ until Q made himself at home, dropping his coat over the sofa and kicking his shoes off in the lounge. He was about to settle into the armchair when John gave a loud "wow!" of surprise from the ice-white kitchen.

"What?" asked Q puzzled.

"The fridge is full of edible food! It's a novelty that's all," he said sheepishly.

"Yes, Lockie's fridge hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. It freaked James out _a lot_ when we were staying-" he broke off and the awkward silence stretched between them.

John was first to recover. "Q, I should apologise for my part in... well, in what happened. Neither of us considered how dreadful a mistake we were making. It was selfish and-"

"John, can we not talk about it? It needs to stay in the past now."

"Sure, no problem. OK. Food?"

Q nodded and smiled. The past simply wasn't a priority anymore; it was the future he was worried about. "Thanks again for being here John, I really do appreciate it."

"Happy to help. Lunch ready in thirty minutes."


	9. Chapter 9

Bond had the hangover from hell. He tried to force his eyes open, wincing at the blinding sunlight, but when he tried to raise his hand to shade them his arm felt oddly heavy. His stomach wasn't roiling, though it felt painfully empty. Presumably he'd vomited out its contents at some point during the evening. Everything hurt, but bloody hell if his headache wasn't the _worst_. It was a 'never again' kind of hangover. Well, until the next time.

"Q-?" he rasped, voice rough from disuse. A curly haired silhouette leaned into his squinting vision. "Water and painkillers."

"Q's asleep; it's just after four in the morning. I suppose I'd better call a nurse."

Bond tried to place the slightly sarcastic monotone and the dark curls, eventually coming up with a name. "Sherlock?"

"The same. You're in the hospital, in case your battered brain hasn't managed to register that fact yet. I've been here _three days_ waiting for you to wake up. Q is very nearly demented with worry, which is pissing Mycroft off no end, and John is practically camping out in your room to ensure you're getting the best care, which is pissing _me_ off too. Well done on managing to annoy all three of us." He didn't sound angry, merely bored.

"Hangover?"

"I'm aware your capacity for alcohol consumption is legendary, but no, not even you could land yourself in hospital with a hangover."

"Beat me up?"

Sherlock snorted. "I've been tempted on occasion over the last five months, but not that either. Shut up for ten minutes, the nurse is here. I'll go wake Q."

The tall shadow melted away to be replaced by a bustling form moving around the bed, prodding and poking at his sore bits and asking questions that made no sense apart from the one that asked if he wanted pain relief. He made an affirmative noise and found that soon the jangling agony in his body paled into a dull throb that didn't test him too badly when the nurse slowly raised the bed to a more upright position. She helped him sip a little water then carefully bathed his eyes so he could open them. Yep, hospital room for sure. Too bloody bright white and glaring overhead lighting.

"Lights… down?" he croaked. Obligingly she dimmed them to a much softer glow and he tried again to open his eyes. Better. Swimming a bit, but definitely not the same assault to his senses. He tried to move each limb in turn to understand why the hell he hurt so much and discovered his right side had suffered a fair bit of damage. His right thigh was agony if he attempted to move it at all even through the haze of morphine, and his right arm, his bloody _gun hand_, was in a cast. That was going to need some rehab work at some point and it wouldn't be pleasant. Damn!

There was a flurry of activity at the door and three figures morphed out of the shadows, two dark and one fair, and all grinning madly which was slightly frightening.

"James! Oh my god!" Q cried, rushing to the bed and hovering over him unsure what to do next. "I want to hug you and kiss you but I'm terrified of hurting you. Oh sod it!" He leaned over as carefully as he could and pressed his lips to the other man's dry mouth. It was uncomfortable on Bond's cracked lips and couldn't possibly convey the depth of emotion Q needed it to but just the fact they could do it made it one of the best kisses they'd ever shared. Bond's good hand tangled in his hair not letting him move away just so he could breathe him in.

The nurse clucked irritably trying to shoo Q off the bed but neither man was inclined to oblige and when Sherlock growled at her to leave them alone she begrudgingly granted them twenty minutes while she called Bond's doctor. John dragged Sherlock out after her to give the couple some privacy. Bond moistened his lips and moved his head to kiss Q again, which proved to be a bad idea. The swirl of dizziness lurched his head back against the pillow and the resulting spike of pain made him cry out.

"Are you alright? Do you need the nurse? Oh god."

"Calm down, I'm fine," grunted Bond.

"_Fine_?" Q demanded, knowing it was Bond's code for 'feeling like shit'.

"Been better," he conceded. He dropped his hand into Q's lap and they laced their fingers together, Q raising their tangled hands so he could kiss Bond's fingers.

"You took your time coming back. I thought you weren't going to bother this time," Q mock scolded but Bond could hear the undercurrent of fear.

"Indestructible." He managed a weak grin. Q held the cup of water up for him and Bond obediently closed his lips on the straw sucking up the refreshing cold liquid. His fingers tightened around Q's and a shadow of pain flitted across his face. Bond caught Q's frown and smiled, "I'm ok."

"Do you remember what happened?"

Bond fell quiet trying to recall the last few days. Sherlock said he'd been unconscious for three which were a complete blank but before that... "Explosion. My shirt... Tied..." He waved their joined hands at his leg. "Was shot."

Q filled in the blanks. Bond sagged against the pillows not really taking it all in, just enjoying the lull of Q's voice washing over him. "When M took my headset I really thought you'd gone," Q sobbed suddenly, and Bond pulled him down in a hug ignoring the ferocious pain in his ribs just so he could reassure his young lover that he was still very much alive.

Q stretched out by Bond's side, tense and still in case he inadvertently hurt his partner, head resting on his shoulder. Bond's fingers idly tangled in his curls, both of them gaining comfort from the small intimacy. Sherlock and John returned but nobody disturbed the peace, Sherlock opting to slump in the chair and watch the couple through narrowed eyes and John moving silently around the room performing his own unauthorised medical checks on the patient, satisfying himself that all was in order.

Too soon the nurse returned, this time with reinforcements, and the battalion of medical staff swiftly evicted them all with strong words about 'one visitor only and certainly not in the middle of the night'. Q was allowed to linger for precisely thirty seconds longer than the rest, just enough time to kiss Bond with gentle passion not giving a damn that they had an audience of amused nursing staff. "See you soon," he promised.

"You better. Love you."

Q grinned like sun bursting through the clouds. "Love you too."

Bond made excellent progress due mainly to his steely determination to spend as little time as possible in a hospital bed under the influence of doctors and drugs. On one of his three surprising visits Mycroft commented that, with the exception of the drugs, the only person more difficult as a patient was Sherlock, who growled at him while the other friends laughed.

Incredibly Sherlock and Bond became united through their mutual distaste of being confined for medical reasons and Sherlock's morbid fascination with Bond's brain surgery and the healing wound. The two were often found by disgruntled nurses in the early hours devising ever more ridiculous hospital break out plans or documenting the healing process, often with rather grisly photographs. Lynn, the Scottish nurse, had moved onto night shift and became a co-conspirator, turning a blind eye when Sherlock broke in to the ward yet again and even conjuring up mugs of hot chocolate from the staff room. By silent agreement they never discussed Bond and John's affair, both allowing it to slide into history, not forgotten but no longer holding the significance it once had.

Physio on his leg was hell but a necessary evil; the arm would come later once the cast was off. The headaches were debilitating at times and the healing wound was hypersensitive but all was progressing normally and after four weeks of driving the medical staff insane his doctor agreed he could be discharged with appropriate support.

The wheelchair was an indignity he accepted with poor grace until Q gave him a severe dressing down. The cast meant crutches were out of the question so if he wanted to get out of the damn hospital he would have to put up with being pushed. Bond's building didn't have a lift so he had to suffer further mortification, not to mention considerable pain when Q and Sherlock, with a bit of assistance from John, manhandled him up two flights of stairs. He had never felt more relieved to be stuck in his flat.

'Appropriate support' meant a full time carer moving in with him. His injuries left him vulnerable if living alone but nobody questioned where Mycroft sourced a qualified nurse with a frightening knowledge of hand to hand combat and a penchant for concealed weapons. Rebecca, known as Bex, was welcomed temporarily into the extended 'family'.

"You're cheating, show me your hand," squealed Q indignantly.

"Shan't," smirked Sherlock holding his cards close to his chest and tossing five more matchsticks into the pile at the centre of the table.

"_James_, tell him to show me," Q whined. Bond grinned and leaned in to kiss him, plucking the card he wanted from Q's hand while he was distracted. "Oi! Not fair! Not playing anymore." He threw down his cards and stormed off into the kitchen past a gobsmacked John and exasperated Mycroft.

"I should ban them from playing together; they regress so quickly." Mycroft sighed.

Bex scooped up the cards and shuffled them back into the packet. She had rapidly adapted to the strange dynamics of the five men and slotted into place effortlessly becoming something different to each. They all liked the tall blonde woman with the no-nonsense attitude.

"Home time, all of you. James needs his rest. You can bicker tomorrow."

All except Q jumped to it, gathering up belongings and moving to the door. "I'm staying," he said with a wicked grin at Bond who held out his hand, an invitation to snuggle.

"No, you are not," Bex said firmly grabbing Q by his _collar_ and guiding him firmly away from the sofa. She had a good two inches height on Q and in a fight the money would definitely be on her.

Bond looked devastated. "Bex, _please_...? Q and I haven't-"

"And you still won't for the time being," she interrupted to snorts of laughter from the group gathered at the door. "Out all of you, and take this horny little rat with you. Honestly, can't go five minutes without thinking about sex even though James is patently not fit enough."

"It's been _months_," Q muttered, blushing beetroot.

"Fit enough to get a bloody erection," Bond snapped and promptly died of embarrassment when several pairs of eyes landed on his groin.

"I'm sure I can get rid of that," Bex said sternly and Bond felt himself wither under her terrifying stare.

"Um, no thanks. I can, um... Yeah. Just fuck off you lot, and _you_, stay away from me." He grumbled nervously.

Bond woke in the early hours when he felt a hand resting lightly on his forehead, another closing gently over his mouth. It was a familiar signal adapted by agents who needed to wake another silently to warn them of peril without alerting an assailant. He slid his hand slowly under his pillow, retrieving his gun and tapping out a series of instructions on the back of Bex's hand. She ghosted away like a pale shadow slipping into the open doorway of the shared en-suite. Bond's eyes widened considerably when he realised she was naked!

He lay perfectly still feigning sleep, keeping his breathing deep and regular. The door handle turned with a soft click and the deeper shadows of the lounge crept into the bedroom as it cautiously swung wider. Deliberately Bond shifted in his 'sleep' arranging himself into a better position to defend himself. The whimper of pain wasn't faked, and the dark figure froze halfway into the room waiting to see if the slumbering man would wake fully. After a moment he continued, footfalls silent on the deep pile carpet.

The figure was four feet from the bed when it disappeared abruptly from view under the weight of a six foot blonde Amazon that leapt from nowhere onto its back. Bond rolled to the side of the bed and had his gun pointed at his would-be attacker's head in less than two seconds. The figure whimpered out a strangled "fuck!" before falling still and staring with wide terrified eyes up the barrel of his lover's gun.

"Q? What the fucking hell are you doing? I could have killed you!"

"Sorry," he burbled from beneath Bex. His hands waved helplessly, not entirely sure where to put them when pressed bodily to the floor by a very naked woman. "Um... This is new." He chuckled nervously.

Bond smirked down at him. "Like it?"

"Um, not really. No offence intended, Bex."

She glared down at him, faces inches apart. "I could break every bone in your body and right at this moment it would give me great pleasure to do so. You do not sneak around in buildings where there are armed agents. Do you know nothing, Quartermaster?"

"Um... Yes. Sorry again. Would you mind...?" he indicated she should get off him and with a derisive snort she obliged, unfolding elegantly from the floor and padding into the bathroom slamming the door behind her.

Q breathed out a sigh of relief that rapidly dissolved into nervous giggles. He straightened his glasses and sat up, rolling his neck. "That woman is fucking terrifying. Please don't let her ever do that again." He wriggled into bed beside Bond who hissed a little when Q nudged his leg. "Sorry, lie still and let me..."

"If I hear sex it will be the last orgasm you ever have Quartermaster. Cuddling I will allow but only because you'll sneak back in if I try to throw you out."

"Christ. It's like being a fucking horny teenager in hell," Bond groaned as Q ignored the mad woman in the bathroom and let his hand roam south.

It was the quietest and most satisfying orgasm Bond had ever achieved.


	10. Chapter 10

"Are you even bearing any of this bloody weight Sherlock?" John barked as he struggled under one end of a huge box that they were attempting to carry up the stairs to Bond's flat.

"Of course I am," snapped the Consulting Detective, "You're just shorter than me so most of the weight presses downwards. Simple physics."

"Always with the short. Maybe you and Q should carry it, you're closer in height and it's _his_ bloody stuff."

They wrestled it through the door with some difficulty and dropped it beside another half dozen similar boxes. Q was sitting on the one closest to the sofa where Bond reclined, arm in a sling, bandaged thigh and battered looking face smirking from beneath a stupid looking hat at the sweaty, cursing men. Q fussed over him, dropping a bottle of water into his lap along with a small tub of assorted pills. "Take them all," he commanded, "even the pink ones. I don't care that they make you feel sick, there's a bucket by the side of the sofa. You need to keep on top of the meds or Medical will haul you in and I won't even pretend to try to stop them. Understood?"

"Yes, darling, anything you say."

Q growled at him but dropped a kiss on his forehead, skipping out of reach of his questing hand.

"No groping until you swallow all that down," Q winked, laughing at Bond's lascivious look. The blond man lounged back against the cushion and groaned obscenely.

"You're killing me Q. It must be time for you to tuck me up in bed…"

"Oh god, _please_ stop! John, make them _stop_!" Sherlock begged, looking faintly green. "I shouldn't have to put up with my little brother and his partner flirting all over the place. It's hideous and inappropriate and…" John shut him up with a kiss that soon had the _other_ couple raising their eyebrows.

"Spare bedroom's that way gents," joked Bond, laughing out loud when Sherlock flicked him the finger behind John's back. "And flirting is about all I'm allowed right now, so give me some leeway. Is that all of it?" he asked Q, who did a quick tally of the boxes.

"One more to come, then we're done. Excuse me, you two, there's just one more." Sherlock and John parted reluctantly and sighed simultaneously.

"How the hell did you get all of this stuff _out_ of the flat six months ago _on your own in less than twenty four hours?_" Sherlock grumbled at Q.

"Oh, I employed a company. MI6 approved. Very efficient."

"_What?_" asked John, succinctly.

"Why the _fuck_ are we breaking our backs to bring it all home?" demanded Sherlock, considerably less so.

"Um…" said Q, "Free dinner, and because you love me?"

Bond roared with laughter at the twin looks of fury on Sherlock and John's faces that deteriorated into a wheezing cough that had Q worriedly checking him over and asking half a dozen times if he was ok.

"I'm fine, love, stop fussing. I'd help you if I could but bomb blasts are a bitch for putting you out of action. Pass me the phone Q – least I can do is order take-away before the drugs have me sliding into incoherency again. Chinese ok for everyone?"

They all agreed and the other couple left to retrieve the final box, leaving Q and Bond alone again for a short while. Bond quickly placed their order and patted the sofa next to him. "Sit for a minute?"

Q smiled fondly, looking around the flat that had ceased to be home for a few months. Bond tugged him against his chest with his good arm, only wincing slightly when the other man's weight rested against his sore ribs. "Welcome home, love."

"It's actually lovely to be back." The younger man looked up at him with bright green eyes. "Sorry it took so long."

"I'm not. You had to be certain." He dropped a kiss on the tip of his nose, a silly little private gesture between them that always made Q frown adorably. "Although, if I'd known dropping a building on my head was a sure fire way of getting you to move back in, I may have tried to blow myself up sooner."

"Idiot. Don't you dare do that again."

"Try my best."

"You're going to be laid up for quite a while this time you know? It's going to drive you insane and I won't be around all the time. M has agreed I can work from home where possible, but there will be times I'm not here and you'll only have Bex for company."

"I'll manage. Stubborn old git remember? The crazy woman has an inexhaustible list of ways to torture me back to fitness so I have every incentive to work hard at it. On days you're here with me I guarantee there won't be much working going on for either of us…" Bond's hand slipped inside Q's shirt, relishing the sensation of his smooth skin beneath his fingertips. Being able to touch him again whenever he desired never lost its shine. Q grinned and kissed him, lips, tongue and teeth all working to show Bond how much he'd missed him, how terrified he'd been of losing him for good, and how joyful it felt to be back home together again.

"I love you James."

"Love you too," he yelped as Q moved a little too enthusiastically against him. "Might have to up the painkillers if you're going to do that though."

"If I up them any more you'll be comatose! No proper sex until I'm satisfied I'm not going to hurt you without resorting to morphine based drugs."

"Spoilsport, you're no fun anymore."

"Really? Who is it risking life and limb to get you off with my hand or mouth when your bodyguard isn't looking? Honestly the woman makes me wilt every time she looks at me! By the time you're fit enough I'll be so traumatised I won't be able to perform."

Bond chuckled and started unzipping Q's jeans. "We have five minutes before the others get back..."

"Five whole minutes? God you spoil me."

The sound of a throat being cleared at the doorway made Bond snatch his hand away abruptly.

"In the _lounge_ Q? Hardly discreet."

"Mycroft! Can't you knock?" Q yelped, flushing two shades darker when he saw his eldest brother wasn't alone. "Oh um... Hello?"

"Hi," grinned the newcomer, tall, silver hair, rumpled suit. Mycroft rolled his eyes and made introductions.

"Gregory, this is my youngest sibling Q and his partner James. Q is less obnoxious than Sherlock and lacks his genius, but is more socially adept. Sadly they compete to see who can be the most immature. Q, this is my friend... Gregory Lestrade."

"Charmed to meet you Gregory Lestrade, please feel free to insult me in my own home in the same manner as my annoying brother. Anyway I'm better looking than Sherlock," he huffed and Mycroft waved to indicate it proved his point. "Aren't I James?"

"Of course you are darling, much better, _gorgeous_ in fact" He kissed him deeply, until Mycroft had to clear his throat again. Bond ignored the interruption until _he_ decided the kiss should end. It left Q adorably breathless and pink cheeked.

"I didn't know you went in for friends Mycroft." Bond teased over Q's head.

"If you could just put my brother down for a moment Bond we were looking for Sherlock."

"I think that cursing on the stairs might be him. He's under John's orders helping Q move back in."

The silver-haired man laughed. "Good to know they sorted their troubles out. Whatever was going on with them made Sherlock even more difficult than usual."

"You know Sherlock?"

"And John too, pretty well. They consult for the Yard on some cases. Exceptional talent, but don't tell him I said that."

"Exceptionally annoying more like," Q muttered, trying to get James to start the kissing again.

"Oh you're _that_ Greg." Bond said, pacifying Q with a quick peck. "John speaks very highly of you. Sherlock says you're 'not an idiot' which is high praise from him."

Greg grinned, not offended at all and obviously amused at the couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other. Almost losing someone would make you very tactile he supposed.

The final box staggered into the room and was dumped less than gently on the pile. John was flushed and out of breath, Sherlock extremely dishevelled, yet it seemed to be lightest box of the lot. "Hard work?" Leered Bond, winking at John.

"Very," he smirked.

"In the _van_? You're disgusting!" frowned Q.

"So says the man who was about to let me-"

"Shut up James."

Bond chuckled and squeezed him.

"I am surrounded by children!" Mycroft sighed dramatically.

"What are you doing here Lestrade? And in the company of my idiot brother too?"

"We ran into each other outside," Mycroft lied smoothly. "Gregory has a case for you if you're not too busy playing at removals? Why on earth didn't you employ a company Q?" Two pairs of eyes glared at the youngest man in the room who simply smiled sweetly.

"If you're interested Sherlock come and see me at the Yard tomorrow and I'll fill you in."

"Splendid! Now where's that food?"

Sherlock didn't seem to have realised that there was no real reason Lestrade should be with Mycroft or that either of them should be 'just passing' Bond's flat. John would take great pleasure in telling him much later that evening and enjoying the resulting tantrum but for the time being he saw the politician and the policeman to the door.

"You have some explaining to do _Gregory_," he smirked, "and I want the gory details so I can torment Sherlock."

"You are a bad man Doctor Watson." Greg walked away shaking his head.

The food arrived at the same time as Bex. She and John shared it out, handing out plates, drinks, chopsticks or forks, depending on relative skill, and they chatted while they ate.

At one point Sherlock disappeared with a sly wink at John. A minute or two later John also left the room, dumping his plate in the kitchen and making a detour into the spare bedroom. It was tiny and crammed to the ceiling with all of Q's computer equipment but it would serve the purpose. Sherlock closed the door and backed John up against it, hands sliding around his waist. John's twined around Sherlock's neck tugging him down so their mouths could meet and they kissed for long moments.

Sherlock smoothly dropped to one knee in front of his boyfriend taking John's right hand and thoughtfully tracing a long fingertip across his own engagement band that still rested there. "John... Would you do me the very great honour of agreeing to be my husband? I don't think I can wait any longer for you to ask me."

John grinned down at him. "That wasn't actually what I was expecting when you got down on your knees but hell yes!" He all but ripped the ring from his finger and shakily held it out. Sherlock had to help guide it onto his finger because John was trembling so much.

"Better than you expected?" Sherlock asked cheekily.

"God yes, far more satisfying and hopefully lasts longer" he laughed.

Sherlock stood and kissed him again until they were both breathless and someone hammered on the door. They returned to the living room a few minutes later with broad smiles, hand in hand.

"I hope you're all free on November the fifteenth?" Sherlock said to the room. "John and I have decided it would be an excellent date to marry."

There was a flurry of 'congratulations' and an 'about time' from Q who jumped up and hugged his brother tightly. Sherlock accepted it with a broad smile. It wasn't every day he could make the men he loved so happy.

Bex was once again the one to shoo the non-residents out when James started yawning. She took a joking step towards Q, threatening to kick him out too, but Bond wrapped his arms possessively around the younger man.

"Hands off my man Bex, he's going nowhere ever again other than my bed."

"Mm, doing it in a proper bed. No more sneaking around? How terribly grown up James."

Bex snorted in a particularly unladylike manner. "Grown up? You two? Believe it when I see it. I'm off for a shower. Get him on his feet Q and into the kitchen to make tea for us all. I bet he's been sat on his bum all day making you run around after him instead of exercising that leg. He's not nearly as helpless as he'd have you believe."

"Oh I am," Bond said pathetically, "I need someone to take care of me." He winked at Q, sliding his fingers down his arm sensuously.

Bex was looming over them in an instant, arms folded and looking severe. "Unless you would like me to lock Q in my room tonight, get up and start hobbling."

Q looked horrified at the thought. "Come on, you can lean on me. You have to walk to the bedroom anyway."

"Ok, I've got something for you in the kitchen. When I was stuck in that corridor I was devastated to think I may not be able to give it to you in person. There's a box on the table."

Q retrieved the shoe box that had been haphazardly tied with a scruffy piece of purple ribbon that had seen better days. The box had a bit of weight to it. "I asked Sherlock to gift wrap it, so… Sorry about that." Q looked at him quizzically. "Well go on then, open it…"

He tugged the ribbon free and dropped it on the floor, lifted the lid and grinned. "Bloody hell 007, is that what I think it is?"

"Yep. Every piece of tech you issued to me for the last mission, all present and correct, and all in fully working order, apart from my mobile naturally. I hold you responsible for its destruction. Miracles happen."

"They certainly bloody do. Well done Bond. I'll see you suitably rewarded for this. It's almost worth risking sex."

"That would be lovely." Bond's blue eyes lit up at the thought.

"Tea!" yelled Bex on her way to the shower.

"We might have to drug her first... I love being back home with you."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: The final chapter - the obligatory happy ending**

"Morning gorgeous."

Bond was propped on his elbow, sheets tangled around his waist, smiling down at Q who peered at him myopically. He was beautifully sleep-mussed and Bond was in no hurry to wake him fully. They had three hours before they had to be dressed and taking control of proceedings, plenty of time for chilled-out morning sex. Q stretched like a cat, the ripple of lean muscle travelling down the delicious length of his torso. Bond let his hand follow his eyes down his lover's body and was thrilled to find some parts of Q were more awake than others.

"Mm nice," the young man encouraged, moving languidly in Bond's hand. "This is the loveliest way to be woken. Do it more often, James, I _like_ it."

Bond chuckled and leaned down to kiss him, brushing his lips over Q's mouth and stubbled chin, keeping up the slow stroke he'd established. "I noticed," he smiled against Q's lips that had fallen open slightly in his enjoyment of Bond's touch. He quickened his rhythm as Q became more aroused, altering his hold in the way he knew would guarantee sweet sighs of pleasure to issue from Q's parted lips. Bond loved that he could tease those noises from his gorgeous man. There was nothing more arousing to him than the little huffs of breath, the needy whimpers and frankly obscene moans that could issue from that beautiful mouth while his hips rolled enthusiastically into his grasp. Q ended with a rush of heat and a deep satisfied groan, pushing a few more times into Bond's hand as the lazy orgasm faded. "Good?"

"_Very_ good. Thank you."

"You have beautiful manners when you've just come." Bond grinned, rolling out of bed and padding to the luxurious bathroom.

The leg felt a little stiff this morning, he noted. Some stretching would be a good idea or he'd be limping by the end of the day and then he'd have Bex on his back if she noticed. She'd only moved out three weeks ago, once MI6 confirmed he was fit enough to resume duty, although he hadn't really needed her for nursing or physical therapy for a while before that. They were friends now, he supposed, and they'd become used to her being around. That said, since she'd left he and Q had basically shagged their way around the flat, on every conceivable surface and some quite ridiculous or alarming ones too. The day Q had almost burned his arse on the hob would live in the memory for quite some time.

Q followed him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. It was huge, big enough to cater for half a dozen people at least. Bond wondered if there were many shower orgies in luxury hotels in London. Presumably so, if there was a market for such massive shower stalls.

"What are you thinking about?" Q asked, stepping under the hot stream of water.

"Shower orgies."

"Well it's not quite an orgy, but I can offer you a shower quickie?"

"Idiot boy." Bond joined him, reaching for the freebie shower gel. "I'm far too old for shower sex."

They spent the next half hour proving that statement loudly wrong, finally emerging satisfied and squeaky clean to wrap in fluffy bathrobes. Room service had delivered breakfast while they were otherwise engaged, a fact Q found quite embarrassing, but Bond took in his stride. He handed Q a cup of Earl Grey and a warm apricot croissant, and settled back on the bed with his coffee and the TV remote to watch the morning news.

"Crime and international terrorism had better take a holiday today. Let's hope no villainous groups realise the value of the bodies in this hotel," Bond muttered. Security had been stepped up considerably, but it would be quite a coup for any terrorist organisation to take out a number of significant targets currently gathered under the same roof.

"Nobody is going to ruin this day," Q said determinedly. "They wouldn't dare!" Anyone upsetting the Quartermaster would be very sorry today. He'd spent weeks planning, and it was going to be _perfect_.

"You do realise this isn't actually _our_ wedding don't you?" Bond teased for about the hundredth time. Q had gone slightly overboard with the whole wedding planner role. John was grateful for the help and Sherlock was just relieved that all he had to do was say yes to everything John wanted and no to half the things Q insisted they needed.

"I know but seeing as you and I are never _likely_ to marry..." The tone was artificially light but it lay there unspoken in the little catch in his voice. Q wanted to be Mr Bond, James believed marriage was an outdated concept, and really, why change something that already worked perfectly?

"I love you," he deflected, kissing Q, pushing him back on the bed, pulling at the belt of his robe. Q let himself be distracted and determined to be satisfied with things as they were.

The eldest Holmes brother was considering murder. It would be a miracle if Sherlock reached the altar unscathed because he was trying Mycroft's patience no end.

"Will you please get out of bed and into the shower? You are not five years old any longer. I cannot pluck you bodily from the bed and carry you there but I will have a good try if you do not get up this instant!"

Sherlock's curly head buried further under the duvet exactly like his aforementioned five year old self, moaning softly.

"Sherlock what's wrong?"

There was unintelligible muttering.

"Pardon?"

The duvet flew back and Sherlock's distressed face appeared. "What if I'm a horrible husband?" He demanded.

"You're a horrible fiancé! John wouldn't expect any different and it's why he loves you, though heaven knows why when you're always so _difficult_."

Sherlock disappeared again and Mycroft decided it was time for his secret weapon. "If you don't get up right now I'm calling Q in here and he can help you get ready."

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me! Dialling now..."

Sherlock was a blur that dived into the bathroom. Mycroft could be a pain in the arse but Q with a purpose was infinitely more horrifying. Everything about this day had to be perfect. Q would probably make him comb his pubic hair for god's sake. Nope, in this case Mycroft's pained sarcasm was preferable to his little brother's enthusiasm.

Emerging ten minutes later dripping wet and stark naked Sherlock started turning the room upside down. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but ignored him, concentrating on his newspaper. He knew exactly what Sherlock was looking for and they were stashed in his pocket.

"We aren't permitted to smoke in the building," he said eventually.

"I'll go outside."

"You're naked."

"So? Give me my damn cigarettes!"

"When you are dressed we will go outside and you may have _one_. I promised John I wouldn't let you have any at all, but I brought breath mints."

"He'll know."

"Of course he will, but by that time you'll have exchanged vows and you'll no longer be my problem."

By contrast John was the epitome of calm. He was already showered, had eaten a good breakfast, had checked over his suit, made sure he had the rings - he certainly didn't trust Sherlock to remember them - and was now relaxing on the bed. When Greg knocked he greeted him with a confident smile and handshake and invited him in for tea.

"We can do better than that; it's your bloody wedding day." He waggled a very nice bottle of single malt under his nose. "Calm the nerves?"

"I'm marrying Sherlock! Nerves ceased to be a problem around the third time he almost got me killed." John said drily but he matched Greg's grin.

"_My_ nerves. I have to make a bloody best man speech you git. Why'd you ask me? I hate public speaking!"

"There are only about thirty guests; you're hardly addressing Wembley Stadium."

John fetched the glasses from the bathroom and Greg filled them to the brim. "Bloody hell Greg, steady on!"

"Down in one Johnny-boy. It's tradition!" He threw his own drink back with gusto, wheezing in a breath when the powerful spirit burned down his throat. "Bloody hell, good stuff!" John shook his head and sipped his own.

Greg's phone gave a chirp and he read the message with a growing smile. "I, um, need to pop out for a smoke in about ten minutes if that's ok?"

"Sherlock driving Mycroft mad is he?"

"How did-?"

"Greg we _all_ know. I don't know why you persist with the secrecy."

"Well Mycroft likes to maintain an air of mystery and I'm still technically married, so... I signed divorce papers last week though, so that's one issue on the way to being resolved."

"Sorry to hear it but I know it's for the best. And lucky Mycroft! Go cheer him up; I'm fine for a while yet."

Mycroft was leaning outside the door of Sherlock's room when Greg ambled around the corner. He greeted the other man with a shy smile, still not quite able to believe the attraction was mutual.

"Alright?" Greg asked.

"Yes, but I daren't leave him alone too long or we might lose him. I just wanted to give you this." He stepped forward and laid his lips on the surprised DI's mouth.

"I think we should expand on that, don't you?" Chuckled Greg, resting his hands on Mycroft's hips and drawing him closer. They were just getting into the kiss when the door flew open.

"For the love of god, stop sucking Lestrade's face and _help me_!" Sherlock wailed. He was still naked and appeared to have a hairbrush tangled in his hair. He was tugging at it frantically.

"I prefer my charge, far more manageable," Greg laughed. "He can dress himself too." Mycroft looked like he could cheerfully strangle his brother.

"Stop pulling at it! I said _stop_! Oh good grief... Sorry Greg, I'll see you downstairs, hopefully on time... Leave it _alone_!"

"James, these things are _impossible_! How the hell are you supposed to put things in your eyes to help you see when you can't _fucking_ _see_ to do it?"

"Language," reprimanded Bond fondly, watching Q poke at his eye. It made him feel slightly queasy to think of anyone putting lenses on eyeballs but Q had insisted that he would look better in the photos with contacts, so he had been cursing for five minutes trying to put the first one in. One eye was now red and slightly watery.

"Fuck!" He said with feeling as he dropped the lens altogether.

"Right, that's it. You are wearing your glasses. I love your glasses, you look spectacularly sexy in your glasses and you'll be able to see comfortably."

"But-"

"No buts, we need to be downstairs greeting guests and you have yet to say hello to your parents."

Q paled at the thought. "Oh god..."

"They know you're dating me again right?"

"I may have told them you were evil incarnate when we split up. They'll be awful. Oh god James, do we have to?"

"I'd be slightly hurt if you didn't," Bond said honestly. "You gave me a second chance. I'm sure they will too."

"You don't know my mother," Q said ominously.

Sherlock sucked on the cigarette like his life depended on it and tried to ignore the fact his hands were shaking. He and Mycroft had already dodged their mother once so far, hiding behind a conveniently parked van and now Mycroft was keeping an eagle eye on the door while his sibling smoked and panicked. He was on his third cigarette already with no sign of the nerves abating. With a sigh Mycroft handed him another and the entire packet of mints. Hopefully John would be so overcome with relief and happiness at his groom actually making it to the ceremony he would forgive the smell of tobacco.

"What if I get his name wrong? Or say someone else's name?"

"Why would you do that? John is the only person that fully exists in your world. The chances of you forgetting any detail about him are slim to none." Mycroft snapped. "You are being irrational Sherlock, now would you please _calm down_?"

"You don't understand Mycroft. John is my... _Everything_! He has to understand from what I say in front of all these people that there is no one else in the world that matters to me more and there never will be."

Mycroft stopped him with a firm but gentle hand over his heart and said the most un-Mycroft thing Sherlock had ever heard issue from his mouth.

"Sherlock, John is firmly embedded right here, and you hold exactly the same place in him. He _knows_! You don't have to tell him for our benefit, he simply knows, loves and trusts. Cherish him always. And that is my limit for sentimental brotherly advice."

Sherlock paced and smoked, smoked and paced until Mycroft was almost demented. He checked his watch yet again and groaned to see there was still half an hour to the ceremony.

"We need to go and talk to people. Mingle, thank them for coming, put on a sociable face. Mummy is looking for us."

"I can't!" Sherlock wailed.

"Yes you can and you will," Mycroft said with every ounce if authority he could muster, taking Sherlock's elbow and propelling him towards a small gathering of guests. Sherlock dropped the half smoked cigarette and crammed half a dozen breath mints into his mouth crunching them noisily settling on an expression of welcome that wouldn't look out of place on a serial killer.

"Hello Molly," he said, clutching at a figure he recognised.

"Hi Sherlock, congratulations. Isn't this lovely?" She smiled warmly, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "John is a very lucky man."

"I think I'm the lucky one," he said softly as he spotted his soon-to-be-husband across the room talking to his sister and a handful of work colleagues from the surgery. John looked up, caught his eye and gave him the dazzling smile reserved only for Sherlock, instantly dissolving all his fears just by being in the same room.

The ceremony was beautiful and horribly romantic in Sherlock's opinion though he grinned broadly from start to finish, never taking his eyes off John who kept him calm with his gentle loving eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled in return. They spoke their vows perfectly and Mrs Hudson sobbed happily into her M&amp;S handkerchief. Mycroft and Greg played their parts as Best Men and no one was very surprised to see them kiss at the end of the evening. Q sat with Bond and stole a kiss at the same time as the happy couple and at every opportunity after that and everyone pretended not to notice them disappear for half an hour, returning with less clothing and huge grins. All in all it was a wonderful wedding and to Q's great satisfaction everything did indeed go _perfectly_.


End file.
